


After the Glitter Fades

by Fierceawakening



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fierceawakening/pseuds/Fierceawakening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holiday giftfic for the prompt "Megatron/Orion Pax, after the glitter fades." Orion Pax has become Megatron's advisor. He works diligently on decoding the Iacon database by day, and shares the Decepticon lord's berth by night. But his missing memories trouble him, as do the memories he isn't missing -- the ones that tell him that "Decepticon" was never anything he would want to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Glitter Fades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyricality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyricality/gifts).



Orion Pax awoke with a start, his azure optics flickering.

Like all Cybertronians, his frame was built to withstand extremes of heat and cold. Only this planet's polar regions could chill him, freezing his cables rigid and slowing his processor to a numb crawl.

Besides, the berthroom he slept in now was the fanciest on the Nemesis. No draft would make its way in here. And the massive frame of the mech recharging beside him was warm with its own heat. Orion could feel the heat of it against his back.

And one of Megatronus's -  _Megatron's,_  he reminded himself.  _He calls himself Megatron now_  - arms wrapped tight around his frame, catching and holding him. That warmed him too.

Still, he could not shake the cold that chilled him. Somehow, the winds of this alien planet had blown not just onto the ship and into his room, but through the cracks in his chest plating into his spark chamber itself, freezing the spark that gave him light.

 _Don't be a fool, Orion,_ he chided himself.  _You're a clerk in the Hall of Records in Iacon, not some superstitious mech who's never seen the inside of a library._

_...Or at least, you used to be._

Now he was something else entirely.

"A Decepticon," he hissed. Megatron stirred at the sound of his voice, the broad arm's grip on Orion tightening.

It might have been an embrace, a protective arm clutching tight at a lover. And Megatron had fallen into recharge that way, sated, his frame rumbling in a deep, contented purr. Recalling it, Orion shifted in Megatron's embrace, warmth pooling in his interface array. His valve ached, empty now. Just hours ago, the gladiator's spike had stretched it wide, delving deep inside him, pressing against sensors no smaller spike would reach.

 _Ex-gladiator,_  Orion thought idly, murmuring with remembered pleasure.  _Megatron hasn't fought in the pits for thousands of this planet's years. He left the deathmatch arena for the Revolution._

_Now he leads the Decepticons._

He flinched again, shivering, the warmth he had felt suddenly cooled by the draft worming its way between his armor plating. He didn't like that word. Nor did he like their symbol, an angular, horned face with angry, slanted holes for optics.

It was everywhere here. Inlaid in the walls and floors of the ship's hallways. Embossed in the backs of consoles and on the sides of energon cubes.

And welded somewhere on the frame of every mech on the Nemesis. If Orion turned around, he'd see it branded right in the center of Megatron's broad chest.

If he looked down at himself, he would see the silvery shine of his own brands, one winking from each shoulder. They were fresh, fresh and pristine, and under the bright sun of the alien planet below them, they would gleam like fire.

_It doesn't mean what you remember. There's a war now. We have to fight it. We have no other choice._

_To wear Megatron's brand now is to stand at his side in that fight. You should be proud of it._

But that wasn't what Orion's memories told him the name meant.

Back then, it had meant terrorist. Assassin. Bomber. Violent thug who wanted revolution, and would stop at nothing until Iacon fell, its domes ripped or blasted open. Or simply shattered by explosives, the lifeless frames of Councilmembers inside blown to scrap in one fiery instant.

It meant someone who had taken Megatronus's words of defiance and hope for those the Council oppressed and used them to justify horrors.

Megatronus had never outright rejected the Decepticons. He had insisted that he sought change through nonviolent means. But he had also expressed admiration for those who risked their sparks to bring it about.

"I do not want war," Orion remembered him saying. "I hope that the Council will see reason, and heed those who their system of caste has wronged. But if these Decepticons believe that only violence remains to them, how is that the fault of my speeches? Those the caste system oppresses demand respect. Let us see how the Council answers those demands before condemning those who make them."

Orion had never liked it. He'd warned Megatronus many times that no good could come of excusing extremists' violence. Megatronus had always had something to say to him, some soothing turn of phrase that had silenced him for the moment but done little to slow the worried whirling of his spark.

_Now he calls himself Megatron. Now Megatron wears the same mark they do. Now he calls it his own - and calls himself their lord._

_And mine._

Orion shifted fitfully in Megatron's grip again. The big mech growled in his sleep, clutching tight at Orion's frame, and Orion could feel a warm blast of air from Megatron's vents. He froze, mistrusting the clutching arm he'd welcomed just hours before.

He could have broken free of Megatron's embrace. His frame was massive now, a far cry from the slim scholar's frame he remembered. He was almost as big as the former gladiator now, his plating reinforced and heavy, the armor just as thick as his partner's.

He still didn't know why. Megatron had told him that the Decepticons were at war, that as his trusted advisor Orion needed a sturdy and powerful frame to protect him from their enemies. But he could not remember the update that had changed him, and he lumbered awkwardly around in his new, heavy body. He drew weapons by instinct, his hands transforming into knives, his broad forearms shifting into blasters that hummed with heat and energy he didn't want to feed them.

He'd drawn them on Megatron more times than he could count.

_Why?_

_I am Lord Megatron's consort, advisor, and friend. I have a favored place in his army, his spark, and his berth._

_This frame is foreign to me. But why should it drive me to betray him?_

And worse even than the shame of drawing blades on his leader and friend was the look that Megatron would give him when he did it. The warm red optics would blaze hot, their ridges curling over them. The big mech's mouth, scarred from countless fights in Kaon's arena, would twist from its usual smile into a fanged snarl of hatred.

Megatron moved just as easily, his weight shifting as his bulk slid into a fighting stance, his claws fanning outward to strike or curling into fists. Powerful engines roared, a wordless growl of threat. From his wrist, a knife emerged, and the cannon mounted on his forearm glowed with hungry heat.

It was as if Orion no longer existed, and something else had taken its place. Something that Megatron would fight and kill, as he had all those millennia ago in the deathmatch arenas of Kaon.

Or something he would put down like a beast.

In spite of himself, Orion's valve throbbed, the sensors flickering to ghostly life at the thought of the power in that imposing frame. That deadly mech had taken him into his confidence and his service, and that very frame lay behind him now, humming with warmth in its dormant state. Those armor-piercing claws, sharp and powerful enough to tear through an enemy's chest plate and rip out the hot spark within, had slid over every inch of Orion's own frame with the utmost care.

The clawtips had pricked him, now and again. But that was the love-play of a fighter built in the Badlands, and nothing more.

_I remember so little, and yet I still have his trust._

The chill curled through him again, a cold that Megatron's heat could not drive away.

_How can I doubt him?_

_How can I not?_

Orion groaned, his vocalizer whining a low, one-note complaint of dismay and indecision.

His own audios filled with it, a low moan of dismay, before he realized he'd made the sound aloud.

The mech behind him shifted again, restless. The broad frame rumbled, the grip around Orion's abdomen suddenly growing painfully tight. Orion could hear the metallic screech of Megatron's claws against the berth as they scraped it. Sparks flew from the impact and fell against his side, stinging the sensors in his too-bulky armor.

But somehow, he still felt cold, as though a sliver of ice had lodged itself in his spark.

But he could not dwell on it long. His audios caught another, far fainter sound: the click of Megatron's optics as they flickered on, and the rumble of his engines as they stirred.

"Orion."

He sighed once, his own optics shuttering. Then he turned, pushing back against Megatron's grasp, venting a soft sigh of relief when it gave.

He opened his optics wide, meeting his partner's crimson gaze. For a long moment, they stared at one another.

Megatron moved first. The big mech's optics narrowed, his lip plates curling in distaste. "It is the middle of the night. You spent all day at your work decoding the Iacon database."

Orion flinched. Why should Megatron care so much that he had recharged fitfully? The coldness in the air curled through his vents again.

_What is it you suspect, old friend?_

But as he watched, the ghost of a smile curled Megatron's scarred mouth, and his frame purred with amusement. "And what happened after we retired was hardly… restful."

"That is true," Orion answered, his voice firm but soft. "I am exhausted."

Megatron's optics brightened, a suspicious, cold light. "Then what wakens you now, when you are in such need of recharge?"

Orion cycled air slowly, willing his optics not to flicker.

"My lord," he said at last. "We need to talk."


End file.
